The Hostage Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  “Now Miss Ruskin’s here, can I go riding again?” she asked, as if to distract attention. She added quickly to Emma, “I haven’t been for ages because there was no one to take me and I’m not supposed to go out on my own.”

  Emma could not ignore such a plea for help. “Do you have your own pony?” she asked.

  The pinched face lightened a little. “Yes, he’s called Misty and he’s white—”

  “You mean he’s a grey,” Zara said witheringly. “You don’t talk about white horses – you ought to know that at your age.”

  Poppy’s face reddened. “I don’t care. I shall call him white because he is white,” she said defiantly.

  “Well, you’ll just show your ignorance, then,” Zara said. “Anyway, I don’t suppose for a minute she can ride,” she added, with a flick of a glance in Emma’s direction. “Why should she, where she comes from?”

  Poppy turned an eager gaze on Emma. “You can, can’t you? I bet you can.”

  “I did learn to ride when I was a child, but I haven’t done it for ages. Still, I don’t suppose it’s something you forget, is it?”

  “Where did you learn?” Mrs Henderson asked, hoping to keep the conversation polite.

  “In Epping Forest. I had a course of lessons at a riding school when I was about twelve.”

  “I knew you could,” Poppy said gratefully. “So I can go riding again, can’t I? She can come with me?” She looked from mother to father, neither of whom was listening, and then appealed to Mrs Henderson. “Can’t I?”

  Zara jumped in sharply. “And what do you think she’s going to ride? I hope you don’t think she’s going to ride my horse?”

  “Well, why not?” Poppy said defiantly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She couldn’t manage him. Besides, I might want him.”

  “But you haven’t taken him out for weeks.”

  “She couldn’t possibly ride well enough. I’m not having Barbary’s mouth ruined by a beginner.”

  Emma raised her eyebrows at this unprovoked rudeness, but she said peaceably, “Perhaps I could come with you on a bicycle?”

  Zara addressed her directly for the first time. “We haven’t got any bikes,” she said with childish triumph.

  “I’ll buy a bloody bike!” Mr Akroyd bellowed suddenly, making everyone jump, and Lady Susan drew an audible breath of disapproval. He glared up and down the table. “Now let’s have an end to this bloody yattering and arguing! You’re like a pack of hyenas, the lot of you! Julie, clear these plates away.”

  The table was cleared and Emma found herself being offered a choice between raspberry sorbet and chocolate pudding. She was about to ask for sorbet when Zara said loudly, “Good heavens, the sorbet, of course. The pudding’s kid’s stuff. It’s only meant for Poppy.”

  Some devil in Emma made her say to the maid who was hovering by her, “Chocolate pudding for me, please. I love all pudding, but chocolate’s my favourite.” The maid served her with, Emma could have sworn, a smile hovering about her lips.

  “Good lord, how vulgar,” Zara said, staring down the table at Emma’s plate.

  And immediately Gavin said, “I’ll have the pudding as well, please.”

  “But you never eat pudding!” Zara cried, as though cheated.

  “I can change, can’t I?” Gavin said.

  “You haven’t changed. You don’t like pudding,” Zara insisted suicidally.

  “Then I must have some other reason. I leave it to you to decide what it might be,” Gavin said.

  He levelled a very frosty look at his half-sister. Her cheeks reddened, and she opened her mouth to retort, but Mr Akroyd looked up from his plate and said, “If anyone else says the word ‘pudding’, they go out of this room. It’s like a bloody madhouse in here tonight.”

  In the silence which followed Emma realised that Lady Susan at the other end of the table had not yet announced her choice, and for a breathless, almost hysterical moment she imagined what would happen if her ladyship opted for the chocolate pud. But of course she did nothing so vulgar. She merely waved the maid away and snipped herself some grapes off the elaborate stand of fruit which decorated the table.

  The meal soon came to its close; they all filed through to the drawing-room for coffee, and Emma wondered how soon she could escape to her room. The Family From Hell, she thought to herself: the scenes over dinner had been so grisly it was almost funny. Mr Akroyd evidently felt he had done enough of the polite, for he bolted his coffee and with a muttered excuse hurried out of the room. Zara went over to the hi-fi in the corner and began fiddling about with CDs, looking for something to put on – presumably something that would annoy as many people as possible, Emma thought.

  Lady Susan, having received her coffee, suddenly looked towards, though not at, Emma, and said, “Do you hunt, Miss Ruskin?”

  Emma couldn’t help herself. “Hunt what?”

  Zara turned and threw a contemptuous look in Emma’s direction. “Oh my God,” she muttered sneeringly.

  But Emma had no desire to join the tribal rite of rudeness, so she corrected her reply hastily to, “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve never had the chance.”

  Lady Susan digested this without emotion. She tried again. “Are you by any chance related to the Norfolk Ruskins?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” Emma said. “My father came from Hoxton. That’s where I was born.”

  “Hoxton?” Lady Susan enquired with a vague frown. “And where—?”

  “It’s in the east end of London,” Emma told her. Lady Susan’s eyes widened slightly as if she had said something indecent, and then she turned her head away and began talking to Mrs Henderson in a low voice. Snubbed again, Emma thought. She was growing almost merry on discomfiture, as though it was intoxicating.

  And then suddenly Gavin was by her side, sitting, coffee cup in hand, on the sofa beside her and saying politely, “I wonder, Miss Ruskin, if you would care to come to church with us tomorrow morning? The car will hold one more. We go to the parish church in the village, and it’s always rather a nice service on Easter Day.”

  “Yes, thank you, I’d love to,” Emma said, glad of a kind word at last.

  “Are you a churchgoer?”

  “Well, I’m C of E as far as I’m anything, but I haven’t been for years,” Emma said. “I don’t think people do, much, in London.”

  “What has London got to do with it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know – it’s just a different sort of life from the country, isn’t it? I mean, in a village, the church is part of the way of life. You don’t have that sort of community in London.”

  “And do you think that’s a sufficient reason for going to church?” he asked. She couldn’t tell if he were disapproving or not.

  “Everyone has to work that out for themselves,” she said. “I shall enjoy the singing and the atmosphere – that will be reason enough for me to go.”

  “You’re very straightforward, aren’t you?” he said, but again, neutrally.

  “I try to be. It saves a lot of time and confusion,” she said. “But isn’t bluntness an Akroyd trait? So your father was saying, anyway.”

  He didn’t answer that, only looked at her with a faint, speculative frown. Blotted my copybook again, she thought. Oh, the hell with it!

  They were interrupted by Mrs Henderson. “I think it’s time Poppy was in bed now,” she said, standing up. “You look rather tired too, Miss Ruskin,” she added, giving Emma the chance to escape. Emma took it gratefully, and said goodnight all round. Zara and Lady Susan did not respond, but Gavin stood up politely and said, “Breakfast for churchgoers is at eight. Please let Mrs Henderson know what time you’d like to be called and she’ll arrange it.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said, and followed Mrs Henderson and Poppy out of the room. At the first floor their ways parted. Emma looked down at the little girl’s peaky face and said, “Goodnight, then, Poppy – may I call you Poppy?”

  Poppy nodded. “Will you still be
here tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course. Didn’t you hear me say I’ll be coming to church?”

  “Yes, but people say things,” she said cryptically, “and then they don’t do them.”

  “I will certainly be here tomorrow. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  Poppy regarded her face seriously for a moment, and then nodded again, with satisfaction, though unsmiling. “G’night then.”

  Alone in her room, Emma could not immediately settle. She paced up and down, going over the evening in her head and trying to sort out the impressions of this most unfamilial family. What a bunch of charmers! she thought. You’d have to be mad to want to be part of this set-up. Then she thought of the pale and miserable child making circles with her spoon in her soup. No one seemed to care for her, she thought; and she felt a fierce longing to make things right for her. But she had probably blown her chances of the job. She’d be on her way on Monday evening with a flea in her ear – if they didn’t throw her out tomorrow.

  There was a tap on the door of her room, and she went to open it, and found Mrs Henderson standing without, looking embarrassed. “Oh Miss Ruskin, I’m glad you’re still up,” she said in a rush, as though she wanted to get it over with. This is it, thought Emma. She’s going to ask me to pack my bags. “I – I do hope you didn’t get too bad an impression of us,” Mrs Henderson said. She laughed nervously. “I’m afraid it wasn’t the most convivial of evenings.”

  “Oh, no, really,” Emma began, trying to find a polite response. “I – er – the dinner was very nice.”

  Mrs Henderson hurried on. “The thing is, Poppy really took to you. She was talking about you while we were walking upstairs, and she was quite excited at the idea of having you for her governess. And the poor child really does need someone of her own. I do hope – I mean, I suppose – have you come to any conclusions about the job?”

  “I didn’t think I needed to,” Emma said. “I was sure I wouldn’t be offered it. I didn’t make much of an impression on Lady Susan.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, if I were you,” Mrs Henderson said. “Lady Susan won’t really trouble herself about it, and you heard Mr Akroyd say that he would abide by my decision. It’s Gavin who will really have the final say.”

  Emma was so surprised by that she didn’t manage to ask why. Mrs Henderson hurried on. “If you were to be offered the job, would you still consider it?”

  “Oh yes,” Emma said, “I’d certainly consider it.” She surprised herself a little with how firmly it came out.

  “I’m glad,” said Mrs Henderson, and said goodnight and turned away and left her.

  Chapter Five

  After the emotional turmoil of the evening before, Emma slept badly, and woke with the frightening sense of someone being in the room. A moment later the curtains were drawn back with a sound which, in her state of half-wakefulness, was like the ripping of metal foil. It made her sit up with a gasp of shock.

  “Oh, sorry miss, did I frighten you?” It was a young woman, a stranger. Emma stared at her blankly, hardly knowing where she was. “It’s half past seven. I’ve brought you some tea.”

  “Oh! Yes, thank you.” Reality slowly tuned in. She was at Long Hempdon, and she was being woken up by a maid. Imagine! With memories of old books she had a sudden horrible doubt whether the maid would want to lay out her clothes, but she only smiled and went out, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Emma reached for the tea and sipped gratefully. Outside the sun was shining, and several thousand birds seemed to be cheeping and whistling and chirruping in satisfaction over the fact. It was a far cry from Muswell Hill, where the birds had to compete with the traffic noise.

  “Why did I ever live in town?” she asked herself as she jumped out of bed and headed (oh sinful luxury!) for her own private bathroom, which would not have any of Ali’s tights dripping from the shower-rail, or Suzanne’s talcum powder coating every surface.

  When she reached the breakfast table she found Mrs Henderson, Gavin and Poppy already seated and eating. Gavin was reading the business section of the Sunday Times, and Mrs Henderson was listening to Poppy who was describing the Easter eggs she had found at her bedside when she woke.

  “I’ve eaten two Rolo mini-eggs already, and a whole Buttons egg and the buttons, and half a Cadbury’s creme egg,” Poppy was saying as Emma came in. “It’s nearly as good at Easter as it is at Christmas!”

  “You’ll be sick, you little horror,” said Gavin without looking up from the paper.

  “I’m never sick with chocolate, only with dinner and spinach and liver and things like that,” Poppy said.

  “Good morning, Miss Ruskin. Did you sleep well?” Mrs Henderson noticed her at that point. With a friendly nod she indicated the empty place beside Gavin.

  “Yes, thank you,” Emma said, taking the seat, and wondered why people always asked that and why you always lied when you hadn’t slept well. Gavin only flicked a glance at her and returned to the paper, as though determined not to notice her; Poppy gave her a shy smile and concentrated on pushing her spoon into her boiled egg without letting the yolk spill over.

  “Can I pour you some coffee?” Mrs Henderson offered.

  “Yes, thank you.” Emma felt it was up to her to make some polite conversation. “Isn’t it a lovely day? I was thinking when I woke up how nice it is to be in the country on a day like this.”

  She thought that must be unexceptionable, and Mrs Henderson smiled and seemed about to make some polite reply, but Gavin folded his paper to a new page with a great deal of rattling and said coolly, “I’m afraid your reading of the weather signs is not quite accurate, Miss Ruskin. We will certainly be having rain in an hour or two.”

  “Oh, surely not,” Emma protested brightly, deciding he was just being perverse. “With that blue sky and those pretty white clouds—”

  “A sky that colour is not to be trusted at this time of year,” he said without even looking at her, “and those pretty clouds are from the west, which always means rain.”

  “Perhaps Miss Ruskin doesn’t have much opportunity to study the weather, living in London,” Mrs Henderson said soothingly.

  Gavin looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Are you trying to suggest that they don’t have weather in London?”

  Mrs Henderson frowned at him, and Emma said cheerfully, “I don’t even know which way west is.” If they wanted her to be an ignorant townie, then she would act up to them.

  Poppy looked shocked. “Oh, but you must know that! East is where the sun rises and west is where it goes down. Everybody knows that. I’ve known that since I was born, nearly!”

  “I only know east from west on a tube map,” Emma said.

  “What’s a tube map?” Poppy asked blankly.

  “There you are, you see, even you don’t know everything,” Mrs Henderson said to Poppy reprovingly. “You may be at home in the country but you’d be lost in London. Do you like a cooked breakfast, Miss Ruskin?” she hurried on, as if determined to change the subject. “I’ll ring if you would like bacon and eggs or anything of the sort.”

  Emma was going to say no, rather than be any trouble, but sensing that Gavin was looking at her, waiting for her answer, she decided, what the hell, she’d be as much trouble as possible and enjoy herself. If he was going to disapprove of her anyway, she might as well get something out of the weekend.

  “Yes, please. I like to breakfast in style on a Sunday. I don’t generally have time on school days for more than a piece of toast.”

  The breakfast was excellent, and Emma wolfed everything, while Gavin worked his way through the paper, Mrs Henderson described the architecture of the local church, and Poppy wriggled with boredom. Emma was happily crunching toast and marmalade when the door opened and Zara came in.

  “Morning. Not too late, am I?” she said, dropping into the seat beside Poppy, who was staring at her with unconcealed amazement.

  “Too late? No, of course not,” Mrs Henderson said,
seeming a little surprised herself. “Shall I ring? Would you like something hot?”

  “Good God, no!” Zara exclaimed with a theatrical shudder. “What kind of person d’you think eats all that bacon and eggs muck these days? Just shove me over a piece of toast, will you?”

  “I’d happily shove you over the nearest cliff,” Gavin said, glaring at her over the News Review section. “What are you doing down at this time of the morning, anyway?”

  Zara looked defiantly at him. “I’m coming to church with you, of course. It is Easter.”

  “Oh Zara, you never go to church,” Poppy said reproachfully. “When Gavin got cross with you last time, at Christmas, you said it was boring and stupid, and he said well then there was no point in you going if you felt like that, and you said—”

  “Shut up, nobody asked you,” Zara said quickly.

  “Maybe they didn’t, but she has a point,” Gavin said. “Why the sudden change of mind?”

  Under his steady scrutiny Zara coloured a little. “What does it matter why I’ve changed my mind? I have, that’s all. Anyway, you’re always so holy about it, you ought to be glad I want to come.”

  “Yes, well, normally I would rejoice over the return of a sinner to the fold,” Gavin said drily, “but you know perfectly well Dad’s gone out in the Mercedes and Atkins has taken the Rolls over to Cold Ashford. We’re going in Mrs H’s Mini, and that only takes four.”

  “Well, that’s all right,” Zara said, concentrating on buttering her toast, “Miss Whatsername can stay at home. I don’t suppose she really wants to go. She said last night that she never does normally.”

  Poppy opened her mouth to point out the illogic, but Gavin spoke first. “The fact remains that there are only three spaces in the car,” he said calmly, “and Miss Ruskin laid her claim first.”